


Separate Spheres

by olivestrees



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AR Febuwhump (Alex Rider), FebuWhump2021, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivestrees/pseuds/olivestrees
Summary: When Alex had wished for a way out of calculus homework, he hadn’t meant he’d be willing to take a unconscious assassin into his care. Helping him recover was one thing, but hiding him from all interested parties was another.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Separate Spheres

Slumped lifelessly over on his desk, Alex transcribed yet another formula of partial derivatives. He held back a sigh as he stared down at the nonsensical symbols. Slogging through a pile of maths homework was not his ideal way to spend a Wednesday evening, but then again...

His train of thought fizzled out as his phone buzzed. He lifted his head. Almost leaping at the respite, he hastily checked the app on his phone. The grainy live feed showed a conspicuous absence before the front doors.

He chewed on his lower lip as he considered. The security system at his entrance was more sensitive than not, which he preferred for the sake of always staying on guard. However, it did mean that there were a number of false alarms in a given day. Even something as mundane as a car passing his house would tip it off. Luckily, ever since he’d started Year 12, he’d moved into a more remote space with Jack, paid for with the help of Jack’s (well, Alex’s) five-million pound reward following the Grimaldi incident. Although, “incident” was a term too tame by far. 

Tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac, their house served as the perfect space to make up for lost time with Jack. After her apparent death, Alex couldn’t bear to be in their old house in Chelsea. It was too painful, to walk around and see all the empty space, to hear the deafening silence that filled every room. 

Alex checked his watch. 8:23 PM. Jack should be returning within a few minutes. Maybe that was her pulling into the garage, although Alex hadn’t spotted any telltale headlights from his vantage point on the second floor. 

He contemplated the merits of abandoning his calculus in favor of some tea and found the results overwhelmingly favorable. Feeling not the slightest bit of guilt, he dropped his pen, stretched out his stiff joints, and pushed back his chair. On his way out, he absently noted the state of his room. Items were haphazardly strewn everywhere, from clothes to plastic bags to discarded scratch paper. His shin guards and cleats from today’s scrimmage were still lying out. The critical voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Jack. He withheld a groan. That’s right...he’d have to clean up before she got back. That didn’t leave him much time, did it?

He cast one last rueful look around his room before shutting the door behind him. 

As he soundlessly descended the stairs, he ran through the list of contingencies he’d painstakingly memorized. Exits, possible entry ways, a million ways the safe haven he’d built could come crashing down in a heartbeat. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t really care; his sense of self-preservation seemed to have vanished after Jack’s apparent death, but now it wasn’t just his life on the line. 

So absorbed in his thoughts, Alex almost face-planted over the prone body lying before the bannister. He immediately reached for his gun, concealed in a holster under his shirt. He slowed his breathing as he swept a wary eye over the man.

A pit of ice formed in Alex’s stomach. There was no mistaking the close-cropped blond hair and that particular set of facial features, which seemed oddly at peace. If the man’s eyes had been open, Alex had no doubt he’d be on the receiving end of a chilling, icy blue stare. Swallowing a sudden bout of nausea, Alex gingerly crouched down and observed the unconscious assassin. Dried blood matted his hairline, where a still-bleeding gash shone garishly beneath it. His face was discolored with bruises, and his left shoulder jutted out at an odd angle. His wrist appeared swollen and bruised. Fortunately, he was still breathing, even if it sounded alarmingly ragged. Alex’s eyes naturally followed beyond the body to the smears of blood on the hardwood floor. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. Alex glanced down at his watch. 8:26. Surely Jack could wait a little longer before returning? 

He stood up abruptly and evaluated his options. He could call 999. Yassen had a dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist, at the very least, and he couldn’t much assess for internal injuries right now. The nasty cut across his forehead could mean infection if he didn’t act quickly enough. The man needed professional medical help. 

But then… Alex hesitated. How had Yassen gotten to this state? How was the man even still alive? He grimaced at the implications. Glancing around the kitchen, he strode over to the sink and generously soaked a cloth with soap suds. He hurriedly grabbed the first-aid kit on his way back. Working with unwavering focus, he placed some gauze over the cut and applied pressure for a few minutes. Once the cut had stopped bleeding, he smoothed a damp cloth over it and dabbed some antibiotic ointment. He dressed the wound with more gauze and sat back on his heels. 

Calling the paramedics would effectively hand Yassen over to MI6. If Jack saw Yassen, she would make Alex call them. That _was_ the most logically sound option, Alex had to admit. He couldn’t tell how life-threatening Yassen’s injuries were, and as much as MI6 may balk at providing treatment, local medical services would do it. And MI6 wasn’t heartless, just ruthlessly practical. They’d want to bring him in for questioning, and Yassen’s current state rendered him useless to that possibility.

Alex picked up his phone, fingers poised to call. He paused. Something caught his attention. A glint of steel that caught the light. He hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He leaned over to investigate. There — tangled around his neck, almost hidden beneath the the collar of his green boiler suit. Circular, stainless steel dog tags, the kind he’d expect to see on military personnel. Except Alex had seen these particular dog tags before, in Smithers’ gadget inventory. A tracker, and not the kind that could be easily removed. If memory served him correctly, there was a locking mechanism around the back of the chain. He’d have to find a way around that, then. He thought he could remember a lesson or two from Smithers. 

A split second of further deliberation was all it took to make up his mind. Alex bent down to wrap his arms around the assassin’s torso. He grimaced. Deadlifting Yassen’s weight was out of the question. Even as stick-thin as he was now, it was still an impossible task. He’d have to drag the man up the stairs, and who knows how long that would take. And there was the matter of his injuries; he didn’t want to aggravate anything. 

Alex propped the assassin up on a pillow against the couch. He headed to the closet opposite the bathroom, where he found sizable wooden planks. He’d intended to use them to build an ambitious model of the Globe Theatre, an English project he’d actually been looking forward to. But they’d make serviceable ramps in the meantime.

He set a plank down across the first length of stairs. A bit shorter than necessary, but he could make it work. He dragged Yassen’s limp body up the makeshift ramp, wincing all the while. He could only imagine the kinds of aches and bruises Yassen would wake up to. If he ever did, that is. Alex’s grip on the assassin faltered at this troubling thought. 

Once they’d reached the landing, he went down the stairs to grab two more planks that would span the length of the second set. He aligned them properly so they wouldn’t slide, glancing down at his watch as he did. Jack would be returning at any minute. He broke out into a cold sweat at the thought. The worst that could happen was that she called the paramedics so that Yassen saw actual care. Alex wasn’t fooled into thinking that Jack would do that out of concern for Yassen’s wellbeing; rather, she’d want Alex to be safe and well away from the assassin.

Alex’s gaze invariably turned to the dog tags. Energy renewed with grim purpose, he latched his hands under Yassen’s arms and started dragging. 

After Alex had successfully transported Yassen up the stairs and into his bed, he sagged against the wall and caught his breath, hair plastered to his forehead from the exertion. He made sure that Yassen’s sprained wrist was at a level above his heart, which would help reduce swelling. He also rinsed off the remaining dried blood on his face. 

Right. He still had to clean the blood smeared all over the floor downstairs. It was a miracle that Jack hadn’t returned already. 

He checked his watch for what seemed the millionth time as he hastened down the stairs, scooping up the planks in the process. 8:35. He supposed it didn’t mean much to keep an eye on the time; Jack should have returned five minutes ago. Running errands always took no more than thirty minutes. Alex didn’t allow himself to pull on that worrying thread of thought. Compartmentalize; deal with the immediate problem. 

That problem being the unconscious assassin in his room. Alex wanted to groan. How had Yassen even managed to break into his house? It wasn’t like he was in peak form, anyway. For an injured and vulnerable man to get past his defenses meant serious gaping holes in his security; he’d have to look into that. 

Still…he supposed he should be grateful that he’d convinced Mrs Jones to dismantle the obtrusive cameras MI6 had so thoughtfully set up around their house perimeter. 

_“Alex,” Mrs Jones had cajoled. “This additional security is for your own safety.”_

_“Bullshit,” Alex snapped. “You know as well as I do that I can take care of myself.”_

_“Yes.” Mrs Jones folded her hands primly in her lap. “But what about Miss Starbright?”_

Alex had stood his ground. He hadn’t ever been coddled by MI6; they didn’t need to start now. If anything, the security cameras were probably more of a way of keeping him in line. Making sure he didn’t run off to pursue a more normal life, where he would be inaccessible to MI6’s endless stream of demands. 

Scowling at the thought, Alex scrubbed the floor vigorously. He sprayed some more cleaner fluid and grabbed the mop for one final sweep. 

He was in the middle of aggressively shoving the mop under a rocking chair when his phone buzzed.

Hopefully that was Jack. Alex didn’t think he had the mental fortitude to deal with any more unwanted visitors. 

Moments later, he got his confirmation as a shock of red hair barreled towards him.

“Alex!” Warm arms encircled him, and for a blissful second Alex forgot about Yassen and eagerly reciprocated the hug. 

Jack leaned back. “I’m glad I got out of that traffic in one piece,” she sighed. “There was an accident right outside the plaza.”

Alex nodded and forced himself to respond, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’m glad you’re back. I was worried.”

Astonishment clouded Jack’s gaze as she took note of the mop Alex was clutching. “Didn’t you mop the floor just yesterday?” 

While Alex flailed for an explanation, Jack held up a hand, a proud smile on her face. “Wait, no. Don’t explain. I get it. And I appreciate it, Alex.” She bent down to retrieve the groceries she’d set down on the floor. “Come help me unpack. Potato casserole sound good?”

“Yeah.” Alex wandered over to the front of the house. Their foyer was spacious and well-lit, but unfortunately quite vulnerable with points of entry at the casement windows adjacent to the doors. Even so, casement windows were ideal for security; they could only be opened from the inside and contained an impenetrable seal. The only way to break in would be to actually shatter the glass. And with the laminated material his casement windows were made of, Alex found that possibility highly unlikely. Now, inspecting the windows, Alex cursed his oversight. One of the latches that would usually secure it in place hadn’t been properly closed. He could see dark smudges where Yassen had climbed through. Pretty impressive. Although Alex would have appreciated it if the assassin had knocked like a regular person. He glanced out through the window — the street was as dark and silent as it had been an hour earlier. 

He firmly closed the latch and turned around. He’d come back and clean the window later. Right now, he had to help Jack with groceries and dinner.

After practically inhaling his food, Alex made his excuses for an early bedtime. He chose to forgo his usual guilty pleasure of tiramisu. Jack responded with a quirk of the eyebrow, but she didn’t comment on the strangeness of his behavior.

“Good night then, Alex. Don’t worry about the dishes; I’ll wash up.”

Alex suppressed a twinge of guilt. “Thanks, Jack.” As casually as he could, he stopped by the fridge and filled his water bottle with ice. He ambled past Jack, who eyed the water bottle with a scandalized expression. 

“Seriously?”

He shrugged. 

“One of these days, that brain freeze is going to set in permanently,” Jack grumbled. “Though sometimes I wonder if it hasn’t already.”

Alex responded by throwing a washcloth slung over his shoulder. The muffled yelp told him he’d found his mark. “Good night, Jack.”

He hastened his pace away from the kitchen, scaling the stairs as swiftly as possible without arousing suspicion.

Yassen was still slumped against the pillows, in the exact same position Alex had left him in. Frail and looking decidedly unwell, he didn’t appear as intimidating as Alex remembered him. There were cavernous shadows under his closed eyes and days-old stubble on his jaw. Abruptly, Alex recalled their second encounter. He had snuck on board the _Fer de Lance_ , where he’d found Yassen lying on a bed in his cabin. The man had been as still as a corpse, just as he was now. But he’d been cognizant of his surroundings then. One moment vulnerable, the next coiled whip-fast, as dangerous as a pit viper.

Alex half-expected the unconscious assassin to strike out as he approached. Much to his relief, there wasn’t even a flicker of movement.

He stood there for two more heartbeats before heading to his bathroom. He took a dry cloth and wrapped it around some larger chunks of ice. Repeating the process, he soon found himself equipped with two ice packs. Satisfied, he returned to his room and stopped dead in his tracks.

The assassin’s eyes had slitted open. In the dim light, all Alex could see were slivers of blue. 

Alex forced himself not to tense. “Yassen?”

Yassen looked at him. His narrow-eyed stare drifted across the room, from the mess of clothes to the football posters taped crookedly on the walls. 

Alex flushed; he could sense the judgment even from across the room. He crossed his arms defensively. “How are you feeling?”

No response. Yassen’s eyes had slipped shut. 

Alex sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay. So, ice pack on the bruised face. Ice pack on sprained wrist. Fix the dislocated shoulder. A splint for the sprained wrist. Remove the tracker. He’d have to assess the damage under the clothes as well. There had been an awful lot of blood on the floor, and that hadn’t come strictly from the gash on the forehead. He closed his eyes in mortification. Maybe Yassen could wake up and do that step for himself.

The more pressing matter was the tracker, and after that, the dislocated shoulder. That would have to be treated as soon as possible, and Alex wasn’t interested in popping it back into place with Yassen unconscious. He’d have his eye taken out, or something equally dire. At least with him awake, Alex could warn Yassen about what he was going to do. They could then work to remove the tracker. Alex would also have to grill the assassin on what other injuries he had. Between the two of them, they could figure something out. Probably.

Alex applied the ice pack to Yassen’s jaw and placed a pillow under to keep it there. The other went on his elevated wrist. He cleared his throat. “Yassen.”

The assassin remained unresponsive. 

Alex glared, but he had a sinking feeling his stare lacked the intensity necessary to wake the man up. He sighed again. What was he to do? He had class tomorrow. It wasn’t like he could stay in this room and play nursemaid forever. He could pretend he was sick, but then Jack would hover over him like an overprotective mother hen. With Yassen at most a couple of meters away, he couldn’t afford that level of scrutiny. 

Or, he could just tell Jack. 

He dismissed the idea immediately. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jack…but he knew her well. Jack wouldn’t want them providing refuge to a dangerous, internationally wanted assassin, much less Ian Rider’s murderer. Any option that didn’t involve Alex’s secrecy led to him handing Yassen over to MI6. 

He could also ask Tom for help. Again, Alex discarded the idea as quickly as it had materialized. This was an Alex problem, and he didn’t want to involve Tom with Yassen in the picture. Who knew if Yassen was really opposed to killing kids? He hadn’t seemed to lose sleep over it with that Stormbreaker debacle. The mission that started it all.

Alex groaned as he resumed his glare on the assassin. The only option left was to skip school and double back to the house. He had drilled Jack repeatedly on how to sniff out intruders, but he’d never prepared her against Alex breaking in. The only one who knew their security protocol better than Jack was Alex himself, after all. He’d have to ask Tom to cover him. As usual. The tricky part was not alerting any teacher. Then they’d call Jack, and the game would be up.

A minute shift in his peripheral vision alerted Alex that Yassen was awake. Finally.

“Alex.” Yassen’s voice was perfectly neutral. His eyes were no longer narrowed slits, which showed at the very least more awareness. That was good. 

Alex scooted forward so that his knees bumped against the edge of the mattress. He decided to get right to it; for all he knew, the assassin could fall back into unconsciousness within the next minute. “You’ve got a dislocated shoulder, a sprained wrist, some bruises, and a shallow cut on the forehead,” he rattled off. “Have I missed anything?”

Yassen’s face twisted almost imperceptibly as he attempted to move his shoulder. “Possibly a bruised rib,” he rasped, after a protracted silence. He punctuated the statement with a slight cough. 

Not good. Well, the silver lining was that bruised ribs could heal naturally given time. But internal damage was an even greater possibility now, and that could be life-threatening.

Alex raked a hand through his hair. They’d have to go through the hassle of finding actual medical help, which was admittedly preferable over Alex’s own bumbling. “Right. I’ll be back.”

He retreated to the bathroom to splash water over his face. His reflection showed a haggard, sleep-deprived teen who, just an hour ago, had been looking forward to some well-deserved rest. It looked like that wouldn’t be feasible for the time being. He took a deep breath and made another ice pack, this time for the ribs. 

When he returned, he could see that Yassen’s breathing had grown more labored. Not good at all. He hurried over and placed the ice pack over his painfully thin torso. “Which rib?”

Yassen moved the ice pack accordingly. 

Alex blew out an exhale. “Alright. We’re going to assume that’s it for now, yeah? We’ll visit a real doctor later. For now, we need to get that tracker off you.” He gestured half-heartedly at the dog tags still around Yassen’s neck. “Get your wrist a splint, and pop your shoulder back into place.”

“Tracker first,” Yassen replied. He sat up, face paling a shade as he propped himself up against the pillows. “I assume you’ve seen something similar.”

Alex passed over an unopened plastic water bottle, which Yassen regarded warily. For a moment, Alex wondered if the man’s paranoia would override good sense, and then Yassen opened it and took a small sip. He nodded his thanks. 

With that out of the way, Alex craned his neck to look at the back of the chain. He recognized it immediately. “Yeah...the exact model, actually,” Alex admitted. He took a closer look. There was a clever locking mechanism embedded in the clasp, complete with a tiny frame and locking hydraulic cylinder. It wasn’t enough to simply tug on the latch. Smithers had shown him this trick just the other day, except he’d isolated just the mechanism. 

_Smithers chuckled as he held up the hook and eye clasp. “See these ends, Alex?” He tapped at the corresponding areas on the clasp. “You thread this bit here, and pull on the latch while holding the hook at this angle.” He demonstrated as much before handing it to Alex._

Alex had liked the little games he played with Smithers, perhaps the only person in MI6 who’d shown him compassion over the years he’d worked for them. The innocuous locks and tricks in Smithers’ arsenal were just extensions of the gadget man’s cleverness and good humor. When Alex had first laid eyes on the dog tags tracker, he thought it had been for the protection of the agent. That the locking mechanism had been to prevent it from being dislodged or misplaced. Now, Alex could see that it had been either remarkably wishful, stupid thinking or just outright naïveté on his part.

Alex forced those unpleasant thoughts away as his fingers worked nimbly. He undid the clasp and tossed the tracker away. “I’ll have to dispose of it,” he said. “I don’t know how to disable it. Think you can stay quiet for a few hours? Jack doesn’t know you’re here; she’ll call the ambulance if she does. Or MI6 first.” 

Yassen pinned him with his usual inscrutable stare. “Jack,” he said slowly. Hearing the name from the assassin’s lips made Alex’s skin crawl. “Your housekeeper — Miss Starbright?”

Alex really didn’t want to know how he found that out. “Yeah.”

“They’ll know I came here,” Yassen pointed out. “You should be prepared to deflect. Make it convincing. And take the tracker somewhere else.”

Alex swiped the dog tags from where they’d landed on the mattress, examining them idly. “Have any suggestions?”

“It can’t be anywhere too public,” Yassen decided, after a while. His expression had grown pinched with pain. “Cameras will show you with the tracker. Take it someplace secluded and hide it there. Can’t be too far, though; I wouldn’t have been able to make it more than five miles beyond Royal & General.”

“Five miles?” Alex repeated in disbelief. He ignored the stern look Yassen gave him. “A bit generous, isn’t it? You collapsed in my living room.”

For the first time, Yassen scowled. He stared at Alex flatly. “You can decide the details,” he replied in a frigid tone. If Alex didn’t know him any better, he’d say the assassin was miffed. 

“Alright, alright.” Alex wrapped the broken chain around his wrist. “We have to fix your shoulder and wrist first, though. I won’t be back for at least another half-hour.”

Yassen nodded jerkily. He fixed his distant stare to a nebulous point on the far wall. “I can handle the dislocated shoulder and wrist. You need to take the tracker now.”

“You sure?” Alex had experienced many a dislocated shoulder before, and he knew it was no fun to pop it back into place. He’d always found it more bearable when Ian did it for him. He shuddered at this train of thought; here he was, offering to do the same for his uncle’s killer. 

“Yes.” Yassen shifted slightly under the duvet. There was a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Now go get the first-aid kit. And leave right after.”

Alex did as he was told. He retrieved the first-aid kit tucked neatly in the cabinet beneath the sink, unpacking the roll of compression bandages. 

When he returned, he saw that Yassen had indeed fixed his shoulder, looking slightly paler but none the worse for wear. Yassen’s gaze honed in on the roll of bandages. Wordlessly, he offered the hand belonging to the non-injured wrist.

Alex watched as Yassen wrapped his wrist with rote efficiency. 

“Before you leave, you need my clothes,” Yassen said as he secured the anchor tape. 

“What?”

“You need to wear my clothes,” Yassen repeated. “If you are caught on camera, they may think it’s me. We’re of a similar build now, and we both have fair hair.”

It was true. Over the past two years, Alex had sprung up by two inches. He still suspected he had more to grow, which was a strange thought. Being taller than Yassen, that is. 

“Alright,” Alex agreed. He couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this crazy plan, but it was a reasonable precaution. MI6 would be able to track the progress of the tracker, pinpointing exactly when and where it was. They could sync camera feeds to the movement and determine that Alex was the one with the tracker.

He’d have to stick to the shadows and hope that the CCTV cameras didn’t catch the details of his face.

Yassen’s complexion turned ashen as he stood up from the side of the bed.

Alex watched him dubiously. “You need any painkillers?” 

“Just show me to the cabinet,” Yassen gritted out. “And the shower. I’ll give you my clothes then.”

Alex eyed the rumpled boiler suit with trepidation. It would fit him fine, but he wasn’t looking forward to the secondhand sweat and equally compelling aroma. “Alright.”

Once he’d determined that the assassin knew where the stocked cabinet was, Alex breathed only from his mouth as he changed into the boiler suit. This was _so_ not worth getting out of calculus homework. 

“Stay out of trouble,” he called out to the shower curtain. 

The answering silence told him all he needed to know. Alex could almost see the unimpressed stare leveled at him through the curtain.

Alex hid a smile as he turned on his heel and left the room. 

The cold night wind nipped at Alex’s nose as he pedaled down the street a few blocks away from his house.

It was early fall, but the air still contained a chill that sank deep into his bones. Alex shivered as he tugged the collar up the boiler suit in vain. He checked his phone. He should be within the three-mile radius he’d arbitrarily decided on that surrounded Royal & General. 

Alex slowed to a stop after a few more minutes. He’d debated over whether to walk or take the bike, but he figured the bike would be faster. If MI6 spotted him on surveillance footage, they could just assume Yassen had stolen it. It wouldn’t be that wild of an assumption to make. 

His breath misted in the air as he swung off his bike and leaned it against a nondescript brick wall. He was in the middle of an alleyway, where two dumpsters stood off to the side. The air stank of rotting garbage right after a shower. It almost made his boiler suit smell like fragrant roses in comparison. He wrinkled his nose as he fumbled for the tracker tightly wound around his wrist. Belatedly, he realized that if MI6 scanned for fingerprints, they’d see that he had touched it. Bugger.

He got back on his bike and pedaled away from the alleyway.

His next destination was the River Thames, which happened to be around two miles on the other side of the bank. He lobbed the tracker into the river and hoped that the current would keep MI6 constantly guessing. Although given Smithers’ high-tech, he doubted it. The next best thing would be for the water to obscure some of the latent prints, but again, that wasn’t very plausible.

As Alex pedaled back to his house, he wondered how Yassen was faring. Hopefully, Jack would only think of the shower as Alex preparing for bed. What else could it be?

He made it back to his house at record speed. He was careful to approach from the backyard, which he’d disabled for the time being on the security alert system. As quietly as possible, he unlocked the back door and slipped inside.

The kitchen lights were off; Jack had gone to bed as well, Alex suspected. That made his job easier. He crept over to the sink and washed his hands thoroughly with soap. After drying his hands and considering for a second, he made a beeline for the three-tiered cookie stand and stuffed two snickerdoodles into a ziplock bag. He imagined the look on Yassen’s face and smirked.

He was halfway through the motion of reaching for another when the lights flickered on. Alex froze.

He turned to see Jack with her arms crossed. Her hair was damp from a shower, and she was barefoot in pajamas. She slanted an unimpressed look at the ziplock bag. “Really, Alex?”

Alex shrugged. It occurred to him that his hair was noticeably dry, and Jack would have expected him to be fresh out of the shower. Hopefully Yassen had finished shortly before his return, otherwise things would get real awkward. Or maybe Jack hadn’t even noticed the shower over her own. 

“I changed my mind about dessert.”

“I can see that.” 

Much to Alex’s relief, Jack’s tone was dry rather than disapproving. She joined him at the counter and held a hand out expectantly.

Any other kid would think to hand over the bag, but Alex knew better. He passed over a snickerdoodle.

Jack took a bite and cracked a grin. “Absolutely delicious,” she enthused. “How am I such a great baker?”

“Yeah, well done, Jack.” Despite himself, Alex had to smile. Jack’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“Now.” Jack waved the snickerdoodle emphatically. “I want to hear about your day, Alex. I know you had a late scrimmage, and then I had errands…”

Alex obediently listed the activities in his day, starting with his predictably tedious classes that he attempted to portray through a more flattering lens. He was currently in a dry spell from MI6 missions, and he’d rather it stayed that way. Jack was proud that Alex was concentrating on his coursework with singular focus, which he was, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he enjoyed it. He had an aptitude for physics and math, which were arguably the only two classes that didn’t drive him to tears of boredom. And with uni just around the corner, he would be focusing on applications and interviews. Regular people problems. The process itself would be unexciting, but Alex didn’t mind. It was better than the alternative.

Then there were the extracurriculars, which included a taekwondo club he’d recently joined. He’d also been attending some chess club meetings lately, but he hadn’t had it today. After taekwondo, there was hanging out with his best mate Tom, and then a football scrimmage against a different school. He had rejoined the rowing club near Hammer-smith, which he’d been in before the disaster in Egypt.

Jack beamed once he’d finished his recounting of the day. “That sounds amazing, Alex. How are you liking taekwondo?”

They headed over to the table, where they took a seat. Alex opted for a bite of a snickerdoodle. “It’s pretty cool, actually. There’s more emphasis on kicking than in karate. I still prefer karate, but I guess that makes sense given how long I’ve been doing it. Plus, it’s just more practical to use your hands and elbows more.”

Jack finished her snickerdoodle and brushed the crumbs onto a napkin. “Are the kicks similar?”

“Yeah, I suppose. The key difference is in the stance…” 

Alex found himself explaining the basics of both types of martial arts. By the time he’d covered everything he could think of, it was half past ten. Much to his amusement, Jack stifled a yawn. 

“I think it’s time for bed,” she said as she rose from her seat. “No more nightly snacks, Alex. I can’t bake fast enough to keep up with your appetite.”

“You’re the one who eats most of your baked goods,” Alex pointed out.

Jack adopted a wounded expression. “That is _so_ not true, and you know it…”

Their bickering continued for a few more minutes before Jack finally made him go to bed. 

Alex trooped up the stairs. The corridor was dead silent. The only sign of life was the light under his room’s door, seeping through the crack.

He rapped gently on the door, and when a voice answered, he turned the handle and stepped in.

Yassen was sitting up against the pillows, thumbing through a book in Japanese. The cluttered shelf off to the side of the bed showed a patch of dust where Yassen had retrieved it from. 

Alex had bought the book for a discount at a local bookstore. The Japanese owner, Mr Saito, was fond of him, and upon hearing about Alex’s desire to learn more about the language, had sold it to him at half the listed price. The book’s level of difficulty surpassed what he was currently capable of, but he was hoping to change that soon.

Yassen flipped a page. “You’re back late.”

“I was talking with Jack. Smuggled some snickerdoodles. Here.” Alex tossed the bag, which Yassen managed to catch with his undamaged hand. 

He examined the bag with his trademark apathy. Proof that the man wasn’t actually human; Alex didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so unenthusiastic looking at cookies. “I think I’ll pass.” 

“Not healthy enough for you?” Alex snorted. Given how thin the assassin was, he doubted the reason was because he wasn’t feeling hungry. Ah, well. He’d find some fruits or vegetables for him later. Jack wouldn’t question a banana, but she’d be opposed to anything messy. 

He approached the foot of the bed and tilted his head at the book. “I didn’t know you knew Japanese.”

“I was learning it during my last job.” Yassen picked up his book and flipped another page. His face contorted as he coughed. 

“ ‘Your last job,’ “ Alex repeated. “With that madman Cray? I thought your only downtime included threatening kids and killing innocent people.”

Yassen slowly set the book down. There was a dangerous glint in his eye, and for a second, Alex thought he’d overstepped. “I don’t do what I do out of enjoyment, little Alex. Even my hobbies are practical for my line of work.”

“Yeah, okay.” Alex watched as he resumed reading the book. The pages made no sense upside down, but he recognized a drawing of a bonsai tree well enough. “That must be a pretty boring life, though.”

“Is it?” Yassen studied the page before him. “Isn’t that the life your uncle set out for you?”

That was a low blow, and they both knew it. Alex swallowed the instinctive urge to defend Uncle Ian. If it weren’t for the man, he’d be dead a hundred times over by this point. Then again, if it weren’t for the man, he wouldn’t have been in the position to save his own skin in the first place. He could have lived his life as a regular British schoolboy; instead, he’d accumulated an impressive collection of scars, both physical and mental, over the last two years. 

“My hobbies are my own,” Alex responded finally, but it lacked the vigor he felt was necessary to make the statement convincing. “I joined taekwondo club and chess club this year. I’m co-captain of my school’s football team; I’m not sure you’d find football very practical in our line of work.” As childish as it was, he couldn’t help the scathing imitation that crept into the last few words. 

Yassen’s attention was still fixated on the page. Slowly, he said, “And you are genuinely interested in those?”

Alex tamped down the rising annoyance. “I can make my own decisions, you know.”

“Hmm.” Yassen didn’t speak for another minute.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to give any further response, Alex decided to move the conversation elsewhere. Perhaps they could put a dent in his growing list of questions. “I have to ask: how the hell did you manage to survive? You got shot at point-blank range.”

Yassen’s eyes went cloudy; his gaze shifted to the same nebulous point he’d been staring at earlier. “No one told me,” he murmured. “I woke up after the operation, drugged to the gills and chained to my hospital bed. They wanted answers.” A shoulder — the one that hadn’t been dislocated — lifted in a shrug. “I wouldn’t give them. Later, they moved me to MI6 headquarters, where Mrs Jones and her team of interrogation experts tried again. Seven months later, I told them what they needed to know. Then they sent me to Gibraltar.”

Alex felt a chill run through him. “I’ve been there.” He shuddered at the unpleasant memories. The whole business with Nightshade had been a right mess. He hadn’t seen Yassen then; that made sense, as they’d only sent him there after. Mrs Jones had mentioned shutting Gibraltar down, but clearly that never happened. Then again, since when did Alex take anything involved with MI6 at face value? “How did you end up returning here?”

“You?” There was a faint hint of incredulity lining that syllable. “They sent you undercover to Gibraltar?” 

“Yeah, I know.” The whole operation had been ill-advised from the start; honestly, Alex wasn’t sure how he’d agreed to it in the first place. He hadn’t owed Mrs Jones anything. 

After a loaded pause, Yassen addressed Alex’s question. “They sent me back because I almost escaped.”

Alex wanted to laugh, but that would be inappropriate. First Julius, then Alex and Freddy, then Yassen… “Gibraltar isn’t as high-security as it seems,” he said, with as straight a face as he could muster. Maybe Mrs Jones should really consider shutting the facility down.

Yassen made a noncommittal sound of assent. He went back to focusing on the book after a swig of water. Alex saw that he was already well past the halfway point. How the man managed to read so quickly in a foreign language while holding a conversation in another, he couldn’t fathom. 

Alex cleared his throat. Perhaps Yassen was an expert at being frustratingly vague, but he still needed his answers. But first… “I, ah, wanted to talk about what you said. On Air Force One.”

For the first time, the assassin stiffened. What little expression left on his face was wiped clean, shields effectively slammed into place. 

Alex continued quickly before he could deflect. “I thought you deserved to know. My dad never worked for SCORPIA. He was a double-agent the entire time.”

Yassen’s face gave nothing away. He may as well have been carved in stone, given how impassive he was. He had somehow managed to get his labored breathing under control.

Alex raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

After an eternity, Yassen flipped the page and met Alex’s gaze with steady blue eyes. “I knew already.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting — denial, anger, some more of that eerie blankness. But it certainly wasn’t _that_.

A maelstrom of unidentifiable emotions roared through Alex’s head. He could only stare vacantly at the man before him. His right trigger finger itched for his gun, but he purged that thought before it could fester. He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to shoot, and then Yassen, even vulnerable as he was, would detain him. And then where would their relationship be? Someplace far south of where it had been two minutes ago.

“You lied to me. You said my dad had been killed by MI6.” Remarkably, his voice managed to stay level, even when all he wanted to do was throttle the contract killer.

Yassen looked away. There was a discernible crack in his mask.

“Well?”

Yassen’s eyes slanted back down to the book. The hand wrapped in the splint clenched and unclenched. “He had been, from a certain point of view.”

Alex wondered if that meant that he knew about Ash’s duplicity. He dismissed the thought; Yassen’s words weren’t that deep. “That’s _not_ what you meant, and you know it,” he snapped. “You let me believe my dad worked for a murderous, bloodthirsty organization motivated only by profit and revenge. You better have a good explanation.”

It wasn’t just that; Alex had SCORPIA to thank for over half his scars and traumatic experiences. Ever since he’d stopped Invisible Sword, he’d been running nonstop. And then he had almost lost Jack. That was the worst by far. Those bleak days without Jack had crushed him.

He waited as Yassen regained his composure. When the assassin met his eyes, he was just as cool and expressionless as ever. “I thought SCORPIA would teach you the skills necessary to survive.”

Right. Yassen had spared his life a few times, and even if his bullshit was true, the overwhelming number of times Alex had been shot at, strangled, tortured, and captured overrode any good intentions. Alex glared furiously at the hired killer. “Don’t make this about me. You sent me to SCORPIA because you thought they could use a fourteen-year old assassin. It’s all about serving your employer, isn’t it?” He didn’t mean for his voice to come out so bitter.

Yassen shook his head. His face looked uncharacteristically insistent. Probably because the man had never needed to convince anyone of anything in his life. He solved problems by holding a gun to the head of the man in need of persuading. How had Alex ever thought of him differently? 

“That’s not it. My loyalty is to myself, Alex. Never forget — you work for yourself, and no one else. Your dad taught me that, even when he hammered in what it took to see the employer’s objective satisfied. I joined SCORPIA because I had no other choice. I stayed because I was good at what I did. If you think I sent you to Venice because of some misplaced devotion towards SCORPIA, you’re wrong.” He paused. Alex could only stare; that was the most he’d ever heard the assassin say in one go. “Malagosto taught me how to kill. Most importantly, it taught me how to defend myself. It gave me the means to feed myself. I don’t have to beg or serve anyone else. I live life on my own terms.

“When I saw that you had ignored my first piece of advice, I thought that you should know what you’re in a lifetime for. Your Mrs Jones asked me quite a few questions about you, when you went to Venice. I never felt anything close to relief during my stay with them, but I came close when I heard you’d found Malagosto. I thought I had done my job.”

As much as he hated the words coming from the assassin’s mouth, Alex had to admit that the bit about SCORPIA’s unparalleled education was true. He had started with an impressive foundation thanks to Ian. On top of that, his youth made picking up new skills easy. But Malagosto had been on another level.

“You were a fool to think I could become a killer. Or that SCORPIA wouldn’t kill me on the spot. Nile almost did, actually.”

“It was a mistake,” Yassen admitted slowly. “I thought SCORPIA would value practicality over vengeance. You are remarkably skilled, Alex.” 

Alex stood up. He looked down at the assassin.

He needed time to process all of this. To know that his hell had been built on a lie constructed by yet another person who knew how Alex needed to live his life. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be pointing fingers. He had willingly gone to Venice, like the naive boy that he was. And if he hadn’t been in SCORPIA at the time, Invisible Sword would have killed him anyway, and thousands of other students as well. But still, he would have liked to do it on his own terms. Just like Yassen had said.

But he was too emotionally drained to do all that thinking right now, with the offender right across from him. There was only one solution to this.

“Get out of my bed.”

After Alex had shown Yassen to the guest room down the hall, armed with enough ice packs to build a small igloo, he sank into his bed, exhausted. He stared up at the ceiling as he replayed their conversation over and over again in his head. Agonizing over every detail.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh. The man had been bleeding out on the plane, after all. People didn’t tend to think rationally then. In Alex’s dying moments, he’d seen his parents. What he would give to see them again. He knew that _they_ wouldn’t tell him half-truths. Or at least, his mum wouldn’t. Perhaps everyone involved in espionage defaulted to lying, when they weren’t killing or exchanging money. It was literally a part of the job description, after all.

He flipped over to his side and watched a car go past the house, the headlights illuminating the room in a brief glow. Something clenched in him at the thought of leaving Jack with Yassen, even if the assassin was injured. He’d need to find a way to skip school tomorrow. It wouldn’t be hard; he’d done it before, after all. But he had new teachers, new classes, new commitments this year. At least he still had Tom with him.

With this comforting thought in mind, Alex closed his eyes and slept.

Alex narrowly dodged a student racing the other direction as he walked down the tiled hallway. Everywhere around him, students were socializing, slamming lockers and getting ready for the first class of the day. It was a Thursday, and already there was a noticeable surge in energy as people were making plans for the weekend ahead.

Alex searched for Tom in the crowd. He found him easily, his best mate’s dark head bobbing among the students milling about. He chuckled as he spotted him walking with Isabelle, a petite girl of Italian heritage with dark braids. Tom had always struggled in his classes, but with the undivided attention of his tutor, he’d vastly pulled up his science grades. It also helped that Tom applied himself with a focus unparalleled by his peers, even Alex.

“Hey, Tom.”

“Alex!” Tom beamed at him. They were almost the same height now, Tom actually an inch taller. His new height made him an even bigger menace on the football field, as he could now execute headers to spectacular effect. 

Alex had worried about Tom leaving for Italy once he turned sixteen, just as Tom had confided in him before the Nightshade mission. Luckily, he had decided to wait until Alex enrolled in uni, which gave them one more year together. 

Alex opened his locker so that it would obscure anyone’s view of his lips. He switched to Italian, their preferred language when communicating confidential matters. His accent wasn’t refined by any means, but he liked to think his Italian was understandable. At least, Jack and Tom were able to grasp his meaning. _“Listen, Tom. Do you think you can cover for me?”_

Tom squinted at him before nodding. His own Italian was slightly clumsier, but he had done a remarkable job in two years. _“Of course. When are you leaving?”_

Tom never asked questions about why; for that, Alex was endlessly grateful.

 _“After first period.”_ He hesitated. _“I, ah, may have to watch over Yassen Gregorovich.”_ The name was spoken in almost a whisper.

Tom gaped at him. _“You can’t be serious.”_

After Tom had been shot in the arm by a sniper meant for Alex, he had thought it necessary to fill Tom in on all the details. He owed his friend that much. 

Alex hadn’t realized just how complicated his life was until he explained it all in one sitting. Tom had been especially fascinated by his description of the cold, aloof assassin, and had poked and prodded at every angle of Alex’s story to get as much detail as possible.

_“I am.”_

Tom discreetly checked both sides around them. Students were hurrying to their next class; they weren’t remotely interested in their conversation. _“That’s crazy. Isn’t he dead?”_

_“Yeah. I thought so too.”_

Tom shook his head in disbelief. He switched back to English just as the bell rang. “Well...alright, mate. I’ve got you covered. I will say that Fletcher is going to be hard to shake off. He likes to take attendance, even if it’s after first period.”

“Great.” Alex didn’t bother hiding his relief. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Tom.”

He sat through his first period, which was physics. He excelled at the class, and this early on in the school year, they were still covering kinematics and the momentum principle. Usually, he enjoyed the class, at least more than the others. But today, he couldn’t concentrate. He stared blankly at the board, which was covered in illegible scribbles that were supposed to show the derivations of the kinematic formulas. 

Once the bell rang, he quickly packed his things and left the room. He nodded at Tom as he turned left instead of right, where he should be heading to history.

Alex strolled out the front entrance. He knew from experience that no one would stop him. He’d hear from Ms Bedfordshire about it later, but that was a concern for another time.

He sped up as he spotted his bicycle. A few students were straggling in the courtyard outside, but Alex paid them no mind. His thoughts were preoccupied with the irreversible decision he’d made moments before.

Most likely, he had gravely miscalculated by telling Tom about Yassen. If MI6 thought to interrogate him, that would be trouble. But Alex had needed to tell someone else. It was the only way to keep his sanity. Even so, rationalizing it did nothing to calm the nervous flutter in his stomach. He needed to be more careful.

He swung onto his bike and took off. 

Several minutes later, he found himself back at his house. Just like he’d done the night prior, he crept in through the back entrance, first ensuring that the kitchen and living room were clear before slipping in.

He forced his itching fingers away from the cookie stand and turned his attention to the stairs. Where was Jack? Most likely lamenting over the state of his room. Thank goodness he’d directed Yassen to the guest bedroom, which Jack wouldn’t look twice at. Even though the guest bedroom was smaller, he liked to think that the accommodations were more than suitable; Jack had bought a sizable house, after all. And besides, Alex doubted Yassen would find reason to complain about his current living conditions.

He scaled the stairs with silent ease and peeked over the bannister. No sign of Jack. Encouraged, he climbed the last two and headed to the guest room on the far end of the hall.

Rapping sharply in the rhythm they’d agreed upon, Alex only had to wait for a handful of seconds before the door swung open. 

“Alex.” Yassen looked unnaturally tense. His eyes flitted behind where Alex was blocking the entrance. “Is there a problem?”

“What? No.” Alex observed the assassin closely; his color had improved with a good night’s rest, but there was a haunted, wary look to his large eyes, giving him the appearance of one perpetually startled. And he still hadn’t shaved yet. “I have a razor in my bathroom if you need it.”

Yassen nodded absently, but his brow furrowed. He held the door open as an invitation. “Why are you here then?”

Alex shrugged as he stepped in. “I figured I could keep you out of trouble.” _Make sure Jack was alright,_ more like.

“The thought is appreciated, but unnecessary,” Yassen replied dryly. “You shouldn’t be skipping school.”

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “Alright, mum.”

Yassen closed the door firmly behind him. “You’re fortunate Miss Starbright left shortly after you headed for school.”

Alex was instantly alert. “Where to?”

“I wouldn’t know.” As Yassen watched Alex pace the length of the room, he added, “She was dressed nicely, as if she were on her way to a date.”

“A date.” The words fell from Alex’s mouth with rapt consideration.

Jack had mentioned off-handedly, once or twice, that she’d been seeing a nice bloke from South Bank. Of course, Alex had pried for details, but she always managed to deflect with a blush or a none-too-subtle redirect in conversation.

He decided to nonchalantly ask Jack about her day tonight and take it from there. 

Alex flopped back onto the guest bed, which was predictably well-made, the sheets without even so much as a crease. Yassen’s look of disgust made it worth it. That and the heavenly sensation of sinking into the softness of the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling as he said, “Well, that should give us enough time to talk about how to find an actual doctor.”

Yassen nodded. “Do you have any ideas?”

Alex thought it over. “I can take some of Jack’s money and bribe a doctor,” he suggested.

“Too risky,” Yassen dismissed. “I have a contact.”

Of course he did.

“The problem is that she lives ten miles away. We could drive there, but she prefers discretion.” Yassen stifled a cough. Ribs still bothering him, then. That was expected. “I can convince her to come here, but it’ll cost extra.”

Meaning Alex would have to pay. It was no problem; he’d offered to do so to find another doctor, anyway. He did have reservations about stealing from Jack, but _technically_ it was his money, just in adult hands. 

“Jack will be out of the house then.” Alex didn’t want her anywhere near Yassen’s undoubtedly shady contact. Eluding suspicion also demanded they keep her away.

“Yes,” Yassen agreed. “What times will she be out?”

Alex considered. Jack was going out for a movie on Saturday with an old college friend. The time window, 1-4 PM, was perfectly suited for their needs. He said just as much, and Yassen nodded. 

“I’ll need a phone.”

Alex dug into his pocket and offered the object in question.

Yassen’s pensive gaze latched onto it. “Is it untraceable?”

“Yeah.”

Actually, it was a lot more than that. Encrypted, waterproof, outfitted with bug detection and a fingerprint duplicator that had been in the model used when investigating Erik Gunter. There was also a tranquilizer dart that would shoot out of the aerial if Alex dialed 755-2099, a fictitious number from one of Smithers’s most beloved _I Love Lucy_ episodes.

Technically, Alex wasn’t allowed to have gadgets outside of a professional capacity, but Smithers had been happy to offer him the state-of-the-art phone for his sixteenth birthday. Perhaps he should be more reserved about accepting anything from an MI6 employee, but Smithers had saved his life too many times for Alex to have second thoughts. 

Yassen dialed a number with his thumb, at a speed that impressed even Alex. He held the phone to his ear and waited for the other line to pick up.

When he spoke, it was in an unfamiliar language — Arabic, perhaps?

Alex tried to read his body language and inflection, but as expected, there was nothing to work with. After a few minutes, Yassen said one last statement in clipped Arabic and hung up. He held the phone out to Alex.

“What did she say?”

“She’s available at that time. She’ll arrive at 1:15 PM sharp in a grey Honda Civic.”

Alex nodded as he accepted the phone and pocketed it. “Sounds good. I’ll make sure Jack is out of the house by then.”

“See to it that you do.” Yassen headed to his bed and reached for another one of Alex’s books — an old French textbook that had actually been Ian’s. It was downright bizarre to see the assassin clutching the thick tome, flipping through the pages with single-minded focus.

Later that evening, Alex happily dug into greasy pizza with Jack. He volunteered to wash up this time, just so that he could smuggle two slices of vegetarian pizza for Yassen. 

As predicted, Yassen wrinkled his nose at his dinner but accepted it without a fuss. 

Saturday came sooner than expected. Yassen had made Alex go to school on Friday, which his set his teeth on edge. He complied nonetheless — if the teachers hadn’t caught on on Thursday, they would eventually. 

By the entrance, Jack was wrestling on a pink jumper that clashed terribly with her hair. “How does this look, Alex?” Her muffled voice called out.

Alex winced. “It looks good,” he offered.

“Thanks!” Jack beamed as she straightened the hem, jumper successfully in place. “Well, I’ve got to run. I said I’d grab lunch with Brad, but that kind of fell through, didn’t it?”

The time read 1:05. Alex dragged his eyes up from where they’d landed on his watch. “Yeah.”

He waved as Jack exited, wrapping a burgundy scarf around her neck. With her bright red hair, she made for a strange sight indeed.

Ten minutes later, a grey car pulled up to the driveway. 

Alex had made sure that Jack left with all her items. It wouldn’t do for her to return for them at some point, as that had certainly happened before. 

So in theory, they were all set.

Yassen’s contact was an olive-skinned woman, with warm eyes and a striking profile. She appeared to be in her late forties, her age only indicated by the barely noticeable crowfeet and salt-and-pepper hair. Upon seeing Alex, she raised her eyebrows, but fortunately refrained from commenting. 

“You wanted a checkup, Yassen?” She spoke with lightly accented English, mainly for Alex’s benefit, he knew.

“Yes. Alex?” Yassen’s cool stare turned to him; the dismissal was clear.

“Come get me when you’re done,” he said awkwardly. He turned and left the room, taking a right to enter his own.

He forced himself to work on some homework before giving up shortly. Curling up in his bed, he reached for his phone and texted Tom.

_hey mate_

The response came two minutes later.

_alex! how’s it going?_

_it’s alright  
how’s the game?_

Tom was currently watching the much-anticipated El Clasico match, between Barcelona and Real Madrid. By Alex’s calculations, they were at half-time right now. 

_its been bloody amazing  
messi got in two assists and ronaldo scored a goal_

The tension drained from Alex’s body as he absorbed himself in the conversation. Like they’d discussed, neither of them brought up Yassen. It was far too risky; MI6 couldn’t monitor Alex’s phone, but they could easily do so with Tom’s.

Understandably, Tom had responded with outrage at the prospect of his phone being monitored, but he accepted it ruefully enough as the hazards of befriending a spy.

Half an hour later, at which point nothing of interest had happened in the game, a knock sounded at the door. Alex sprang up and made sure his bed looked somewhat presentable.

He opened the door to see Yassen on the other side.

“Come see our guest out.”

Alex followed him back to the guest room. “Can I at least know her name?” 

“No.”

When they returned, the woman looked up from where she was scribbling on a notepad. She ripped off the lined paper and handed it to Yassen.

“Nothing else besides what you already knew. You need ample bedrest. Make sure you stretch your arm and wrist regularly and take your painkillers.”

“Estimated recovery time?” Yassen gave a cursory glance over the page. He seemed unsurprised.

The woman tugged a strand of hair behind her ear. “Around three months. It’s all written at the bottom of the page. And I do mean that, Yassen. Don’t think about shirking scheduled rest like last time.”

Alex couldn’t help himself. “He’s done that before?”

“Yes.” Her lips twitched. “He was quite a bit younger then.”

Alex found that hard to believe; somehow, he couldn’t imagine a younger Yassen being reckless with his health. Maybe in a situation where the assassin wanted to work out earlier than prescribed, the overachiever. 

Yassen scowled. 

“But he’s much wiser now,” the woman continued, a teasing lilt to her words. She shrugged on her trench coat. “It was nice to see you again, Yassen. Even if you are just as dour as I remember.”

Ignoring the bait, Yassen held the door open for her. 

She shot him an amused glance as she stepped past. “Take care, Yassen.”

“Wait!” Alex blurted. 

They turned to him.

He held out what he’d nicked from the cash stash under Jack’s dresser: four-hundred pounds, the astronomical sum Yassen had named. 

There was a silence as they just stared at it.

Yassen lifted his gaze to observe him curiously. “You expected to pay?”

“Well, I thought it was implied,” Alex said defensively. He felt a little foolish, holding the thick wad of cash out only for no one to take it.

“There’s no need,” the woman assured, smiling kindly. “Yassen has already done so.”

“Oh.” Dumbly, Alex put his cash back into his pocket, cheeks flaming.

Yassen nodded at the woman. “Pleasure doing business with you as always, Fatima. _Maa salama._ ”

Fatima’s smile broadened. When she spoke, her words were tinged with fondness. “Take care of this one. I like him.”

With that, Yassen shut the door. They watched silently as Fatima exited the house and pulled out of the driveway in her car. 

“That went well,” Alex offered after the car had disappeared. They still had at least two hours left before Jack returned.

“Yes.” Yassen seemed a million miles away. Abruptly, he turned from the window and strode to the bed. He sat down stiffly on it, the pallor on his face more apparent. “We need to discuss what you’re going to do with me.”

Thrown by the non sequitur, Alex stared at him, bewilderment overriding whatever concern he’d felt for the briefest of seconds. “What?”

“Are you going to inform MI6 of my presence here?” He showed no visible distress at the thought. 

Alex had considered it. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “It depends on how murderous you’re feeling in a few days.”

Yassen nodded. The time-frame was expected for him, Alex knew; they both knew it would be impossible to conceal him in the house for something as long as three months. 

“But if you promise you won’t hurt anyone for money or otherwise, I’ll let you go free.” 

Even as the words left his mouth, Alex cringed at how childish he sounded. As if he could trust the promises of a killer who’d worked for SCORPIA for almost half his life. The illusion of control he had over Yassen was probably just as bad; they both knew that Yassen could effortlessly flatten Alex to the ground within a matter of seconds, even in his state. There would be no “letting Yassen go free”…Alex would simply open the door to make the inevitable more painless for them.

Yassen tilted his head. “Agreed,” he said. He paused. “You have an exceptionally stubborn moral compass, little Alex.” His voice had grown soft. “Sooner or later you’ll realize a life in espionage will compromise that.”

Two days after the meeting with Fatima, Alex was painstakingly copying lecture notes when he heard Jack’s yelp from the floor above.

He jumped up, trig identities instantly forgotten, and sprinted up the stairs.

He found her standing at the doorway of the guest room, staring wide-eyed at the assassin several meters opposite.

“Jack, I can explain,” Alex started quickly, but the rapidly evolving shades of red on his housekeeper’s face forced him to stop and reconsider.

“Who’s this?”

“Um…”

“I’m a family friend,” Yassen interjected smoothly. “I knew his father.”

 _You killed his brother,_ Alex didn’t say, even as he kept his eyes trained on Jack. He bit his lip.

“No. You’re not.” Jack glowered at Yassen. “You’re Yassen Gregorovich, aren’t you? You killed Ian!”

Alex had felt like he was dangling from the edge of a precipice, and now he was pinwheeling in free-fall. Swallowing his dread, he worked some moisture into his suddenly dry mouth. “How do you know that?”

Jack glared at him. “MI6 showed me pictures. Just this afternoon, actually. They said something about him escaping. Asked me if I’d seen him. I was going to talk to you about this during dinner, Alex. But it looks like we can move it up the schedule.”

“Look, Jack.” Alex spread his hands placatingly. “He wasn’t in a good way. MI6 had done that to him. I thought he could recover before we handed him back.”

Actually, he hadn’t been sure of what his next steps would be after Yassen got better. He’d discussed it with the assassin, of course, but Alex was still on the fence about letting him loose on the world. On the other hand, to hand him back to MI6 would kind of defeat the point of letting him recover. It was also perfectly conceivable that Yassen had sustained his injuries from the escape, rather than while he was in captivity. But Alex hadn’t really thought that through when he’d seen the limp body at the foot of his stairwell.

Jack shook her head in disbelief. “Alex. What has he done to you? Has he threatened someone? You don’t need to protect him.”

“He’s done nothing,” Alex protested. “He even saved my life a few times.” Well, refused to kill him, but Alex would take what he could get. 

Jack directed her glare to the unmoved assassin. “What did you do?” she said fiercely. 

“As Alex said, I’ve done nothing,” he replied, the mildness in his tone betrayed by the way his lips downturned into a faint frown. Most likely disappointed with his lack of killing, Alex thought uncharitably. “You’ve raised him well. He is an excellent caretaker himself.” 

That thought gave Alex vertigo — taking care of Yassen. But that’s what he’d been doing, hadn’t he?

He saw that Jack was winding up for a furious rejoinder. He hastily intervened. “Jack, please. He’s been here since last Wednesday. If he’d wanted to hurt us, he would have already.”

“He’s just waiting until his strength has recovered!” Jack retorted. She jabbed a finger at him. “I can’t believe you, Alex.” She shifted, and then everything happened at once.

Yassen moved with the fluid grace of a cat as he twisted the phone out of Jack’s hands. One moment, he was standing meters away from her; the next, he was far too close for Alex’s liking.

In that amount of time, Alex had drawn his gun and aimed it at Yassen. The assassin froze instinctively on the other side of the barrel.

“Alex.” His voice was low, reasonable.

Alex lowered the gun. A part of him cursed his comparatively slow reaction; Yassen had been fast enough that he could have easily snapped Jack’s neck. “Don’t do that again.”

“Noted.” Yassen straightened, slim fingers wrapped around Jack’s phone. If his expressionless mask had somehow slipped during the excitement of earlier, he'd regained it. “Apologies, Miss Starbright. I couldn’t let you call MI6.”

At this point, Jack’s glare could make ice catch fire. “Alex,” she gritted out. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Alex glanced at the calm assassin, who was somehow the most relaxed of the three of them. Yassen quirked a brow, an unspoken question to his look. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

Dinner that night was an awkward affair. For the first time, Alex didn’t feel the need to hide Yassen, so now he was seated between Yassen and Jack at the circular dining table. It made for an odd tableau, certainly — the two most important people from the separate spheres of his life, seated opposite each other, sharing the same meal.

It was weird.

Alex made a diligent effort not to glance at the two of them as he piled his plate with bangers and mash. 

For an unbearably long time, the only sounds in the room were the scraping of cutlery and chewing as Alex eagerly devoured his food. He could have cut the tension with a knife.

“Keep your mouth closed,” Yassen advised, after what amounted to only five minutes but felt like five centuries.

Alex had to swallow his potatoes to repress his sigh. 

“You don’t get to tell him what to do,” Jack said fiercely. 

The silence continued, this time even quieter than before with Alex’s concentrated efforts not to chew too loudly.

Finally, Jack set her silverware down and leaned back, eyes narrowed. “I want to establish some ground rules.”

When Yassen didn’t respond in any way whatsoever, Jack continued. “You stay away from Alex. Our house is large enough. That means you stay in the guest room unless it’s time for meals. And Alex, no visiting.”

“That’s not fair,” Alex protested. “You’d effectively be imprisoning him again.” Well, Yassen had been trapped in his guest room up until now, but Alex had hoped that if Jack knew, he could freely roam the house.

“Alex.” Her exasperation was evident, even in just that one word. “He’s a wanted criminal. Do you have any idea of how many people he’s killed? He’s not some innocent stray puppy.”

Yassen’s eyes narrowed into catlike slits; clearly, the implication of being compared to a puppy offended him. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll agree to your terms, but it’s up to Alex if he wants to stop visiting.”

Alex didn’t need to reconsider. “I can keep a closer eye on him,” he insisted. “And I can look after myself, Jack. You know that.”

It took a great deal of more convincing, but Jack eventually caved in. She didn’t look remotely happy about it, though. 

The next few days passed relatively peacefully. Jack never seemed to thaw to Yassen, and she still distrusted the small gestures he did to help out around the house — cleaning rooms with a practiced efficiency, washing dishes, preparing food from the ingredients in their pantry. Admittedly, it had taken Alex getting halfway through his unexpectedly mouth-watering meal to convince Jack that none of the food was poisoned. The rule of Yassen staying only in his guest room was not strongly enforced by any means, and for that he was grateful. For some strange reason, the assassin didn’t seem troubled by his confinement, but Alex was growing restless just watching him read or do his stretching exercises. 

They finally broached the topic of how long Yassen would be staying, over another dinner he'd made: a delicious beet soup called borsch and piroshki, which were fried puff pastries stuffed with meat and cheese. 

“I think a week,” Alex proposed.

Jack shook her head. “Four more days.”

“Four more days,” Yassen agreed, in that measured, agreeable tone of his.

It was downright bizarre to see them agreeing on something. For that, Alex didn’t argue the point.

Two days before Yassen’s scheduled departure, they received an unwelcome visitor right before dinner.

The day had started uneventfully enough; in the morning and afternoon was school. Once Alex had arrived home from football practice, he took a quick shower and scarfed down a snack as Yassen patiently outlined the basics of Arabic to him. 

Yassen kicked him out of the guest room so that he could take his daily nap. It was strange for him to need to take naps, the assassin had explained to Alex. From what he’d gleaned about Yassen’s sleep schedule, he only needed five hours to function normally. Well, “normal” being a relative term…Alex suspected that the man was so expressionless partly because he had to conserve his limited well of energy. That, and the fact that the hired killer seemed to be emotionally stunted. 

Alex was lounging in his room, doing absolutely nothing, when a black sedan pulled up to the front of the house.

Dread twisted in his gut as he recognized the woman who stepped out of the car. She was dressed smartly in a dark suit, with piercing black eyes. Her dark hair framed a pale, placid face, a study in contrasts.

He scrambled out of his chair and raced downstairs.

They’d discussed what to do in this event, but Alex had fervently hoped that this would never happen. 

By the front entrance, Jack was pale. She had opened the door to receive their visitors, and now Alex could see it wasn’t just Mrs Jones; she had come with two intimidating agents, dressed in identical black suits.

“Alex.” Mrs Jones smiled at him, but Alex could see the strain at the corners of her lips. Behind her, Jack shifted her weight to the other foot. Her eyes flashed as if to say, _What are you going to do?_

 _Stick to the plan,_ Alex hoped his stare conveyed. “Mrs Jones,” he replied, allowing an appropriate amount of surprise to color his tone. “What are you doing here?”

Mrs Jones raised her eyebrows. She held up the tracker; the chain dangled from the tips of her fingers. “Yassen Gregorovich was here, Alex. Have you seen him?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. An undercurrent of tension thrummed in the air. 

“Yes,” Alex admitted. It wouldn’t do to deny something MI6 knew without a shadow of doubt. He was already walking on thin ice as it was; he couldn’t afford to compromise what little trust MI6 had in him. He took a deep breath. _Make it convincing._ “I treated some of his injuries, but he left shortly after. Haven’t seen him since.”

“He stole your bike for a small trip to the Thames,” Mrs Jones replied. “But I don’t think that was him on the bike, was it?”

“Alex was taking a shower then,” Jack offered. “I know because I got him some of that rose shower gel my parents gave me for Christmas. He wasn’t very receptive to the thoughtful gift.”

Alex made a face at her to mask his relief. 

“Is that so.” Mrs Jones appeared unamused. “Miss Starbright, are you aware that, as the legal guardian of this household, you’re harbouring an internationally wanted fugitive? That’s ample grounds for deportation, if not worse.”

“You can’t do that!” Alex burst out. He looked between them, scandalized by Mrs Jones’ audacity. At the very least, the head of MI6 Special Operations had always maintained a pretense of being on the good side. “Mrs Jones, if you deport Jack, I’ll never work for you again. Nothing you’ll do will convince me.”

Jack shrugged as she crossed her arms. Her chin jutted up in defiance. “Oh, it’s alright, Alex. We can travel to America together. Forget working for these bastards. I’m loads rich now.”

“You’d be surprised by what the government is capable of, given the proper motivation,” Mrs Jones said dryly. “Miss Starbright, I strongly encourage you to consider handing the criminal over. If you still value your small fortune.”

Alex forcibly closed his jaw, which had unhinged at some point during this exchange. “Yassen is a dangerous man, but he can’t be worth five million pounds. SCORPIA is gone. Who’s he going to work for? You?”

Mrs Jones tilted her head in consideration. “Very well,” she said, after a brief pause. “I’ll offer you a deal, Alex. We’ll leave Gregorovich alone in exchange for your continued service. Lifetime employment.”

Alex snorted. He wasn’t quite sure he’d want to throw away his life for the assassin. “I don’t think you’d even be able to find Yassen. He’s probably on the other side of the globe by now.”

Mrs Jones looked at him with what appeared to be pity. “I highly doubt that. That man means trouble for you, Alex. He sent you to SCORPIA, leading to multiple attempts on your life. Jack almost died because of him. Ian did die because of him.”

When Alex didn’t respond, Mrs Jones continued relentlessly. “You know he made a deal with us? He offered to manipulate you in exchange for his freedom. Feeding you stories about John, preying on you emotionally until you would be forever in our service.”

Alex didn’t show any outward reaction, but something inside him jerked at the thought. Yassen wouldn’t do that, would he? At this point, both Yassen and MI6 had lied to him, though MI6 held the lead simply through more exposure.

“I would have seen straight through that,” Alex managed. “He isn’t the sentimental type.”

“No,” Mrs Jones agreed. A faint smile curled at her lips. “He isn’t. We thought the bargain was a poor one, as well. He cooperated eventually, with what we set for him. I’ll leave you to think about this, Alex. Our terms are fair. Every time you take on a mission for MI6, you’re doing your country — the world, really — a service. Saving countless lives. With this deal, you can save one more.” Her smile took on a touch of disdain. “Even if he doesn’t exactly deserve it.”

She turned to leave the house, the agents flanking her protectively as they stepped through the front entrance.

Alex didn’t stop them.

He met Jack’s eyes. Her lips were twisted into a deep frown. “Why didn’t they search the house? They must have a warrant for it.”

Alex shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said aloud, but he actually had a good idea. MI6 valued his service over any information Yassen might give. SCORPIA was gone, and capturing him at this point would only be for protecting the well-being of the public more than for anything else.

“Don’t confront Yassen about...that,” he pleaded. He didn’t know if he could handle Jack demanding answers from Yassen, only for his worst fears to be realized in front of her as well. Jack would be too kind, but the unspoken _I told you so_ would hang over them for days.

He’d find the truth sooner or later. And for now, they only had to hold out for two more days. 

Alex knew MI6 would be watching the house; he couldn’t stop them now, especially since they had reason to suspect his involvement in helping Yassen. They’d have to get creative with getting him out of the house. The rest was up to Yassen.

The next day, right after school, Alex found Yassen in the living room, where he was engrossed in a documentary about aircraft. He was lounging languidly on the couch, pressing a pillow and ice pack to his ribs. They’d talked to him about Mrs Jones’s unwanted visit, but he hadn’t seemed nearly concerned enough to Alex’s liking.

“We need to discuss how to smuggle you out,” Alex said bluntly.

Yassen didn’t bother glancing up, eyes riveted to the screen. “If what you said is true, they won’t bother searching any vehicle that leaves the building. The matter should be straightforward enough.”

Alex exhaled. “They won’t just let their only leverage against me slip away,” he pointed out.

“There’s still Miss Starbright. Your friend Tom Harris. Plenty of innocents at your school. What makes you think I’m any different?”

He had to be joking. “Because you’re a criminal, and they can actually get away with taking you away. They actually should.”

Yassen shrugged. “Call some of your friends over. I’ll leave with one of them; MI6 can’t search all the cars.” 

That sounded like a disaster. Alex could just imagine one of his friends, besides Tom, flipping out as they noticed the stranger in their car. Or maybe Yassen was so stealthy that he could get away with stowing away in a car. In the trunk? Somehow, Alex couldn’t imagine the assassin going to such lengths. “And get my friends roped into this mess? Yeah, no thanks.”

Jack plopped down next to Yassen, carrying an enormous tub of popcorn. She offered some to the two of them, but Yassen refused as Alex eagerly grabbed a handful.

“What are we talking about?”

“How to get Yassen out of here,” Alex said helpfully.

Jack hmm’ed in thought. She tossed a kernel of popcorn into her mouth. “The way I see it, Alex, you’re not pressing your advantage enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Yassen won’t say, but I’ll say it for him: you can bluff about your long-term commitment to MI6. Say that you’ll work for them, and they’ll let Yassen go. Once he’s gone, you don’t have to keep your word.”

“They’ll force me to sign a contract,” Alex pointed out glumly. 

“Well, then go the other way. Threaten to expose MI6’s treatment of you. You have proof, right? Ten missions, and there must be a paper trail for at least one of them. If you don’t want to go that extreme, just threaten to stop working for them. You already did when Mrs Jones visited.”

Exposing MI6 could work; Alex had heard about Dominic Royce, the former permanent undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, who had disapproved of using a fifteen-year old schoolboy as a secret agent and shut Special Ops down for it. For a brief while, at least. Of course, Royce had actually been part of Nightshade’s clientele, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t other government officials who would be sympathetic to Alex’s plight. 

“I’ll talk with Mrs Jones,” Alex decided. “It would certainly be less messy for you, Yassen, if we get MI6 off your back entirely. Makes it easier for you to disappear.”

Yassen had plans for once he left the house, Alex was sure. He hadn’t asked; it was better for the both of them if Alex didn’t know. 

Yassen finally slanted his gaze at him. His expression had gone uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t have to do this, little Alex.”

“It’s fine.” 

It really was, he realized; he wanted to do this. If he put his foot down and named his own terms to MI6, maybe they would stop thinking of him as an expendable toy and start treating him as a real investment. He was outgrowing his younger boyish looks, anyway. He would be of no use as a child spy, with his taller height and skinnier face.

He made up his mind. “I’ll speak with her tonight.”

Needless to say, Mrs Jones was incredibly displeased with the recent turn of events.

She had expected Alex to hand Yassen over. Especially given the reasons and sensible terms she’d listed.

Where had it all gone wrong?

Laid out on her desk were copies of the damning evidence. Hospital records, hardcopies of mission reports and transcribed briefings. It was just like Royce’s file, except thicker. Perhaps she could claim that Alex had forged the papers, but the official seal was all there in its damning glory. Not to mention how the elaborate details in the mission files all lined up. It would take an extraordinary imagination and logistical mind to fabricate everything to the precision that the official documents demanded. 

She had never meant to push him this far. Alex Rider had performed remarkably well in the field due to his enemies’ tendency to underestimate him. It seemed that she had fallen for the same trap.

She sighed and reached for her phone.

“Ma’am?” The voice on the other line was expectant.

“Call it off. And let Gregorovich know he’s off the hook, so long as he doesn’t get himself in legal trouble again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The line disconnected. Mrs Jones slumped in her seat, an uncharacteristic shattering of composure, and reached instinctively for a peppermint.

Yassen Gregorovich had been a pain in her arse for far too long. And even with the trail of bodies he left in his wake, for all the crimes he’d committed, she was allowing him to walk away, scotch-free. All because of Alex Rider.

But if Yassen decided to revert back to old habits, Alex’s best form of protection would mean nothing.

A month passed before Alex got a text from an old friend.

_My dear boy,  
I hope you’re doing well. Mrs Jones was telling me about the business with you and Y. If you ever need to talk, you know I’m here. _

_Please take care.  
S _

Alex smiled. Of course, the way Smithers texted was how he used to send his written notes.

That reminded him. He could just ask Smithers for what he needed. It was irrational, and quite literally the last item on his list of priorities, but he wanted to know.

Any risk that might have made Alex reconsider was irrelevant now, as Yassen had disappeared once Mrs Jones had agreed to their terms. He had no idea where the assassin was. It was better that way, he figured.

He thought for a moment before responding. 

_hi smithers! im doing fine wbu?  
also, I was wondering if you could send me something..._

The package came in the mail the next day.

Wrapped in a small manila envelope was a DVD. The only indication that Smithers had sent it was the message inscribed hastily on the front of the plastic casing.

Alex popped the DVD into his computer and waited as the machine whirred.

A window opened on his screen; the first frame showed just a background of muddy brown. 

He pressed the PLAY button. 

The camera came into focus to show an impossibly small, bleak box of a room, with gunmetal gray walls and one uncomfortable looking bench. Yassen was staring calmly at the opposite wall, where he was undoubtedly being observed. He sported an unkempt beard, and the boiler suit hung loosely off his frame. The circles under his eyes seemed permanently carved into his skin. Alex wondered how the assassin had shaved before turning up unannounced at his house; no one would be stupid enough to trust him near a razor. 

“Mr Gregorovich.” Alex recognized Mrs Jones’s cool voice. “Are you more disposed to cooperate today?”

There was no response. 

Alex waited with bated breath. He had an awful feeling about this.

Yassen’s silence stretched on as he repeatedly refused to acknowledge Mrs Jones’s persistent questions. 

Mrs Jones stopped at one point. 

Without warning, two overhead sprinklers came to life. They drenched the room within a matter of seconds. Alex could see that there was a drain in the floor’s center, where the rest of the floor sloped ever so slightly towards. However, the drain didn’t seem to be working. The water rose at a rate more rapid than Alex could believe.

He felt sick. For one terrifying moment, Alex was back in the cellar under the Widow’s Palace, where Nile had locked him in to drown. He could still see the slime-covered walls; feel the sensation of burning lungs, the rising panic clawing at his throat and threatening to cut off his limited supply of air. He’d escaped by swimming through a hole in the floor-boards, but it had been a very near thing. 

Hastily holding down the fast forward button, Alex scrubbed to the end of the footage. Smithers wouldn’t send this to him unless there was something truly important. 

Around the two-hour mark, he resumed the video’s normal speed. Yassen was gasping, wide-eyed, on the bench. The room had been drained, but the walls and floor were still wet. Alex could see the level at which the water had risen to; Yassen would have had to tread water, as there wasn’t enough space at the top for him to attempt to float.

“I’m willing to discuss terms,” Yassen rasped, after he’d caught his breath. Shivers wracked his frame as his shoulders hunched inward. 

A door, presumably right beneath the videocamera, opened so that a towel could be tossed at him.

Yassen dried himself and, wrapping the towel around his neck, waited.

Alex had to pause the video there. He took a steadying breath. So Mrs Jones hadn’t lied. Not about how Yassen had offered a deal, at least. He forced himself to hit PLAY again, this time turning up the volume so he wouldn’t miss anything.

“Very well.” Mrs Jones’s voice was just as dispassionate as ever, but…there was an undefinable edge to it, something akin to triumph. Alex supposed he could understand; Yassen had held out for more than half a year. Expending that much time and energy on interrogating him was an exorbitant investment, especially considering his tenacity. “What do you propose?”

Alex watched as Yassen clutched the towel tighter. The shivering had stopped. When he looked into those eyes, he could only see steely resolve. “If you leave Alex alone, I’ll tell you everything. You can even keep me detained, but I want a better facility.”

There was an extended silence. Alex sat back in his chair, eyes glued to the screen. What he should be feeling was blissful relief, but somehow this revelation had rubbed him the wrong way. What was it? He scrubbed his hands over his face. 

He regretted doubting Yassen’s motivations. Yes, that was it. Just because the assassin had made one mistake didn’t implicate him in everything MI6 had done. A part of Alex knew how self-absorbed his analysis of the situation was; comparing MI6’s and Yassen’s handling of the truth around him was a futile exercise that would go nowhere. Both MI6 and Yassen had committed atrocious acts far worse than lying to him. He knew that. But after seventeen years of being used, he was tired of having to second-guess every authority figure in his life.

Alex realized that he had missed the first bits of Mrs Jones’s response. He scrubbed backwards until he found where he’d zoned out.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The undefinable edge from before was lacking now, the tone more subdued but equally chilly. “Alex is currently occupied in Cairo.”

The timeline made sense; seven months after Cray, Alex had been investigating Erik Gunter and the CICAE in Egypt. He had seen doctored footage of Jack getting blown up from a car bomb, but fortunately that had never actually come to pass. Still…that moment featured heavily in Alex’s nightmares, even two years later. 

Yassen’s brow creased. “And then after?”

“You will not be in the position to bargain then, Mr Gregorovich. SCORPIA will be crippled beyond repair. Any of your information that isn’t already outdated will be obsolete. You should just concede the point now and tell us what you know.” There was a pause. “We can move you to a new facility if you like.”

Alex knew that Mrs Jones was bluffing. She had no way of knowing that Alex would accomplish his mission, despite his remarkable streak of success.

“Done.” Yassen’s eyes showed his trademark imperturbable calm, but Alex could see that he was slightly nettled from the tightness in his jaw. “I’ll tell you whatever you want now. But you leave him alone, after this mission.”

“That won’t be a problem. Especially with SCORPIA out of the way.”

Alex only caught a glimpse of the look on Yassen’s face before the video reached the end. 

He gripped the edge of his desk for an indeterminate amount of time, staring numbly into space as his mind churned. It was disconcerting, to the say the least, to find that his employers he’d known for over two years were less trustworthy than the cold-blooded assassin who’d killed his uncle. A man he barely knew. 

Prying his hands away from the desk, he shoved his chair back and stood up. 

He left his room and headed downstairs. He pulled on his anorak and called out to Jack that he was leaving for a quick walk.

Her muffled reply sounded like a close approximation to assent, so Alex took it and left.

As Alex walked around his neighborhood, he took out his phone and texted Yassen.

_park behind my neighborhood  
what time?_

He completed two circuits around the cul-de-sac before he got a response.

_Saturday 8:30A_

Count on Yassen to choose an ungodly hour in the morning. 

Suppressing a smile, Alex pocketed his phone and headed home.

Saturday dawned with a dazzling glow of sunlight that washed over his room. Alex groaned as his alarm beeped insistently by his ear. He cracked one eye open and laid there for a blissful two minutes, thinking about how the rest of his day would go.

When he knew he couldn’t delay any further, lest he be late for their meeting, he dragged himself out of bed and raked a comb through his messy hair. He got dressed and washed up.

Jack was helping herself to pancakes drenched in syrup. She raised an eyebrow at seeing Alex — bleary-eyed but aware at this early hour. She slid her plate over. “It’s my second helping,” she explained, when she saw that Alex had opened his mouth to decline.

He shrugged. “Alright. Thanks, Jack.”

“No problem.” 

Alex shoveled a bite of pancake into his mouth. “I need to meet with Yassen today.”

“Oh?” Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Yeah. 8:30, actually, so I have to run.” Alex wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll be back to finish, okay?”

Jack rolled her eyes. “Be careful, Alex.”

“Yeah, I know. See you later!” He called over his shoulder, already hurrying to wash his hands and leave the house.

Six minutes later, Alex found Yassen standing pensively in the middle of the empty park. Untroubled and serene, the assassin looked considerably better than when he’d been recovering in Alex’s guest room. He also wasn’t dressed for the cold weather, which was a bit worrying, but Alex didn’t dwell on it.

He came to a stop before the man, observing him closely. “How are you feeling? How’s your ribs? Your shoulder?”

“Healing nicely.” Yassen was examining Alex in turn. “And you?”

“I’m doing alright.” He paused. “I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

Yassen raised his eyebrows. 

He supposed he should elaborate. “Mrs Jones said you cut them a deal.”

The man remained unreadable. Utterly predictable.

Alex studied his face as he said the next words. “She said it didn’t go through, not at first. Why’s that?”

Maybe testing him so transparently wasn’t something he should be doing, as it implied a lack of trust, but Alex wanted to see Yassen acknowledge it in person. It would make what he’d seen on camera more real.

Finally, he sighed. “You were busy stopping SCORPIA. Getting out of the mess I put you in.”

“Oh. Oh no, that’s not what I…” Alex fell silent. The self-incrimination wasn’t something he’d expect from him, but then, Alex had made it clear that he blamed the assassin for what had happened in Venice and after. 

He took a deep breath and looked back at Yassen. “That’s not it. Mrs Jones told me that the deal involved you manipulating me with stories about John. In exchange for your own freedom.”

There was silence as Yassen digested this. His brow quirked. “And she expected you to believe that?”

“She seemed to think so,” Alex admitted. “I didn’t know what to believe. You lied to me once, after all. While you were dying. Says a lot about your character.” He hesitated. Here he was again, chastising Yassen when he shared the blame as well. “I should mention that I willingly went along with the missions involving SCORPIA. Mostly it was just my own curiosity getting the better of me.”

Yassen smirked. “That does sound like you,” he agreed. 

Alex was heartened to see the man express something other than that shuttered neutrality, but then Yassen sobered quickly. “I won’t apologize for sending you to SCORPIA. But I will say that I could have done it differently.”

“You fucked up,” Alex offered summarily, and was gratified to see Yassen’s lips twitch.

“Yes,” the assassin agreed.

Alex shrugged. “I will say, though, that you were right about Malagosto. That training has saved my life more than a few times…”

Their conversation turned to other matters — school, in particular Alex’s future plans, their respective hobbies, even something as mundane as the weather. They both carefully skirted topics that dealt with Yassen’s current whereabouts. Or anything related to spy business, as the assassin had expertly changed topic following the mention of Malagosto. Alex found himself relaxing; it had been a while since he’d held a conversation with the man, and he’d almost forgotten how calming it was.

By the time Alex had finished detailing his plans for the weekend, it was half past eleven. Yassen stood up from the park bench, which they’d migrated to at some point in the conversation. 

“I have to catch a train in ten minutes,” he explained.

“Oh. Alright.” Alex was surprised that Yassen would travel to London only to stay for three hours, but he supposed he could understand. Best not to stay in one place, especially London, where it was especially vulnerable to MI6, for too long. He held out a hand.

Yassen considered him before clasping it in a firm grip. His hands were ice-cold, and Alex had to suppress his wince. 

The amused look told him he’d succeeded only marginally. “Until next time, little Alex.”

“Until next time,” Alex echoed.

He watched as Yassen turned and walked away. Pretty soon, all that was visible of the assassin was a tiny blot against the green backdrop of grassy hills.

He was sure he’d see Yassen again, someday. Until then, he’d simply have to wait.


End file.
